


Call Me Pretty, Call Me Yours

by evdi



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: (a total mess), Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Better, Link woke up like this, Link's anxiety and memory loss, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, and "just eat something and you're fine", trying to strike a balance between "can be injured so bad it takes 100 years to recover"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evdi/pseuds/evdi
Summary: Link has a problem.Well, two problems, really. Or, a problem and a sub-problem. Because Link is in love with the way Sidon makes him feel, with the way Sidon talks to him, praises him, calls himstrongandbraveandfearlessand Link cannot, just cannot stand for that to stop. He doesn’t know what he would do if it did.He isn’t strong, or brave, or fearless enough to dare find out.So he… does things. He keeps the Lizalfos in check single-handedly so Sidon will call him strong. He fights a Hinox without a bow to be lauded as brave. He takes on the Ploymus Mountain Lynel after every Blood Moon to be thought fearless.That is the second problem.





	1. Brave. Strong. Fearless.

**Author's Note:**

> The Ploymus Mountain Lynel does not level up normally in game, but since that’s for quest reasons only I’ve ignored that fact.

It started with Vah Ruta.

Actually, if Link is being honest with himself (a rare feat on the best of days) it started at Inogo Bridge, and only got worse after that. Every time Prince Sidon surfaced, every time he opened his mouth and beautiful, warm words of encouragement came pouring out of it, Link fell just a little bit further in love.

And it only got worse after that.

Months since he woke up, cold and alone and achingly empty, and so little had changed. At least at first. Until Sidon. Sidon with his words and his smiles and his everything and—

Link has a problem.

Well, two problems, really. Or, a problem and a sub-problem. Because Link is in love with the way Sidon makes him feel, with the way Sidon talks to him, praises him, calls him _strong_ and _brave_ and _fearless_ and Link cannot, just cannot stand for that to stop. He doesn’t know what he would do if it did.

He isn’t strong, or brave, or fearless enough to dare find out.

So he… does things. He keeps the Lizalfos in check single-handedly so Sidon will call him strong. He fights a Hinox without a bow to be lauded as brave. He takes on the Ploymus Mountain Lynel after every Blood Moon to be thought fearless.

That is the second problem.

The woosh of air past his face and bite of rough blade on his cheek let him know just how much trouble he is in. He clumsily dodges the axe-like sword the Silver Lynel wields, rolling to the side and barely escaping another savage blow. His shoulder burns from trying to block its strikes, his best weapons are broken, and his bow is no good at this distance. Not that it would matter; the Lynel is a better shot than him anyway.

Silver. Goddess damn him, he should have been paying more attention to the turnings, to the moon, to his weapons, to—

An iron-hard hoof to the side sends him reeling backwards, slamming into a boulder with a sickening crunch. His vision doubles, and for a second there are two Lynels rearing back, swords at the ready and preparing to charge. Months — no, years — of training propel him sideways, tripping over his own feet in a desperate bid to put the boulder between himself and the monster. His breath is coming is great, wet gasps, a sure sign something inside of him is broken.

(A lot of things inside of him are broken.)

A roar echoes in his ears, shaking the branches of the tree to his right, and he’s about to risk making a break for it when flames erupt on either side of his hiding spot. The heat is immediate and intense, and sweat mingles with the blood already making his grip on the broadsword unsteady. He sheathes it. It’s practically useless now, anyway. Another blow and it will break, he’s sure.

Link swears, low and fervent, making promises to Hylia he knows he’ll never keep if she’ll just grant him a little bit more luck. Not enough to win. He isn’t that fearless. Just enough to get away.

He wonders what Sidon will say to that.

Counting the earth-rattling hoofbeats as they approach, he braces his hands, bruised and blooded and one possibly sprained, against the rough surface off the boulder. When the Lynel is almost on him, rounding the corner wreathed in fire and fury, he springs up as fast as he can, grabbing at what little purchase the rocky surface offers and hauling himself over the boulder. He all but falls down the other side, landing on his feet with a jarring thump that sends shooting pain through his ankles and knees. He stumbles before breaking into a run, weaving through the trees and rocks towards the path to the peak.

Perhaps the Goddess does favor him, because the Lynel’s momentum carries it past his hiding spot and around the boulder in a wide arc, its galloping pace too fast to allow for quick stops or pivots. His aching feet are on the path by the time the monster has righted itself into a charge. Link hopes, fleetingly, that it won’t follow him up to the Point. He knows it would follow him down the mountain with no trouble, but the path up is thin and winding enough to provide cover.

He is more than halfway up the mountainside path when a pain blooms in his back, just under his shoulder, followed by a crackle over his skin like a personalized lightning strike. It is only pure, base instinct that keeps him from falling, that keeps his feet moving one after another up the path, weaving more out of dizziness than any forethought to dodge.

He forgot about the bow.

Arrows shatter on the rocks at his feet and over his head, missing him by pure luck and his own exhaustion-driven unpredictability rather than skill. One grazes his head, spilling blood into his eyes and shocking him forward onto the ground. His already bruised hands twinge in protest, scraping across gravel and packed dirt for purchase. When he looks up his vision dims but he forces his eyes to focus on _forward_.

Always forward.

Forward is the summit turn, mere feet away. He scramble-crawl-runs to the bend, throwing himself around the relative safety of it. Link lets himself relax for a moment. The Lynel can’t make it up here (he hopes). He can glide or shrine-hop down to the Domain, rest, avoid Sidon, and try again. Everything will be okay. This was a failure, but he can fix it.

Sidon doesn’t have to know.

He repeats the thought to himself like a mantra, like a prayer as he drags himself further from the summit and closer to the Point. More distance between him and his failure. He stumbles again, almost falling, and grabs ahold of the warning sign for balance. He usually ignores the sign, gliding down to surprise his prince with elaborate twists and drops, but now probably isn’t the time for that.

His hands shake just trying to get the slate off his belt, and the ancient technology is slow to respond to his blood-slicked fingers. For a moment he wants to scream, to throw the slate and everything it represents off the cliff and maybe even himself after it. Closing his eyes, he opens them again with a deep, if painful breath. Looks out at the Domain. It’s beautiful this time of day, with the last rays of sun painting the naturally blue towers in pinks and purples, turning the silver statues into gold, throwing light off the water and making it sparkle even more than it does at night.

Even now it’s the most beautiful sight in Hyrule. Maybe one day he’ll have the courage to bring Sidon up here and show him.

A furious roar reminds him why that’s a bad idea, right now. Maybe always. Link risks a glance over his shoulder, but the mountain path behind him lacks the tell-tale shape of an angry, injured Lynel, so he relaxes again. Turning back to the slate, he fails to notice the flash of light high above the mountain, the whistle of fletching in the wind, or the hum of electricity in the air until it is too late.

The Lynel is a _much_ better shot than he is.

The pain is blinding. Link thinks it comes from his back, but the bite of lightning through his limbs is so all-encompassing it could come from anywhere. Everywhere. He is only dimly aware of falling. The ground seems oddly far away. There is so much in between him and it that he does not remember being there before, all gold and pink and purple and achingly, loudly red.

And then he hits the ground, surprisingly blue and wet and yielding, and he finds that he cannot breathe anymore. He thinks he hears Mipha’s voice, or maybe Zelda’s. 

He thinks he hears Sidon.

He wishes, just this once, that he didn’t. Sidon was never supposed to see this. See him like this. See him as anything other than brave. Strong. Fearless.

See him for what he really was.

When the darkness takes him he doesn’t fight it. 

***

Link wakes up in pain. It’s not ideal, but he supposes it is better than the alternative. His head feels like a ChuChu — wobby, useless, and one good blow away from exploding. His body feels worse. Maybe a Fire ChuChu? Or Ice. He feels hot and cold in equal measure; his lungs burn, his feet are freezing. He can’t feel his back, but he thinks that might be a good thing.

Awareness comes back to him slowly; a throb in his shoulder, tight stiffness in his legs, the stings on his palms remind him of his most recent failing. A memory of fighting, running, falling. Water around him, darkness inside him, and strong arms pulling him back, pulling him up, forcing him to breathe. Begging him to stay.

He isn’t sure that part happened, but it’s a nice memory either way.

Even as he starts to catalogue the pains in his body, they begin to subside. A cool ripple of power, like a gentle tide, runs over him. It must be one of the better healers. Tula, maybe. He remembers Sidon saying how good she was. He thinks it was Tula, anyway. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out. Not yet.

Tula either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he’s awake. He hopes for the former, and keeps his breathing shallow and steady. The air in the healing rooms is cool and still, with an undercurrent of salt and something else unique to the Domain. He’s never been quite sure what the taste was, but he imagines it might be what pearls taste like, or sapphires, or Sidon.

The bed underneath him is soft and blessedly solid. He lets himself drift, not quite asleep but not truly awake, until the sound of raised, angry voices disturbs him. They’re muffled, and seem to be coming closer down the hall before stopping outside the room he’s in. The voices get louder, then softer, then louder again, and then the door is slamming open and the voice is yelling and it’s Sidon and Link wishes he wasn’t as awake as he is right now.

“—will not, Muzu! Cancel the damnable meeting for all I care, and leave me be.” Sidon sounds mad, madder than Link has ever heard him. Not that Link can ever remember hearing him sound mad before, or yell, or slam doors. But here he is, and for what.

 _For me_ , the traitorous part of his mind thinks, and Link likes it a little more than he should.

Sidon is still talking, he realizes belatedly, mind still floating just below the pain. Link makes an effort to listen. He really likes Sidon’s voice, even when the prince isn’t showering him in praise and validation. He likes the tart note of concern in Sidon’s voice less.

Except that’s not true, he does like it, he loves it, he loves the way it makes him feel just as warm and wanted as all Sidon’s sweet, empty words ever did, and he hates himself even more for that.

“Kodah, how does he fare? Is the healing taking? How are his lungs? Did you—”

Kodah (not Tula) is calm even under the prince’s barrage. Link wonders vaguely if it’s a trait all healers share. Mipha was always so calm, too.

“Please, one question at a time.” There is a pause, almost infinitesimal, and Link tries to picture Sidon then. Imagines the prince standing by the door, arms crossed and looming, with his nose scrunched up the way it gets when he thinks. Link should sleep, should stop, but he _wants_. To open his eyes, to look, to have Sidon keep talking.

He’s a mess, but at least he knows it.

But it’s Kodah who speaks next, continuing before his prince can. “Actually, no questions. Not here. I’ve done what I can, and we need to let him rest now.”

Sidon sighs, and maybe he agrees and maybe he doesn’t but it’s too soft for Link to hear. The last thing he remembers feeling before slipping back into sleep is disappointment.

He supposes it is better than pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal favorite method of fighting Lynels involves getting trampled repeatedly.


	2. Stupid. Selfish. Careless.

The next time Link wakes up, the pain is gone but so are the voices. He can’t decide whether he’s grateful or not for the latter, so he concentrates on the former for now. His back still aches and his chest feels oddly tight, like breathing is something he has to work for, but other than that he feels fine. Relatively fine. 

Everything is fine, really.

Link pushes himself up, ignoring the way it make his head feel weird and wobbly again, and swings his legs out of bed. He takes a few deep breaths, just to make sure he can, and looks around the room. It’s one of the smaller healing rooms, with just a bed and table and a wide open window taking up most of one wall. He can’t see much out the window from where he’s sitting, but it looks like night has fallen. 

If he’s lucky, he’s only lost a few hours. Link tries not to think about the alternative.

His bag and what remains of his weapons are shoved in the corner, thank the Goddess. It seems like Kodah — he hopes it was Kodah — put him in a fresh tunic, one of the green ones he never cared for, but it’s clean and soft and long enough to preserve what little modesty he has left, so he really can’t complain. 

He stands, keeping one hand against the wall. When the room only sways a little, he makes his way over to his gear. Other than the near-useless broadsword leaning against the wall and the traveler’s bow next to it, there isn’t much to check on. He should have restocked before last night. He knew he was getting low. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.

Link closes his eyes and breathes.

He can fix this.

With the Blood Moon come and gone already, the Lizalfos will be back to swarming the paths and wetlands. He can sweep them out first, pick up a few spears and boomerangs there. Then he’ll head to the closest Bokoblin camp — their weapons are awkward and unwieldy, but the fang-tipped clubs pack an awful punch. 

His back protests as he leans down to rummage through his bags, pulling on a well worn pair of travel pants before tugging on his shoes, belts, and quiver. At the bottom of his bag he finds a potion. He can’t remember what kind it is. He thinks it might at least be a hearty one. He downs it in one go, grimacing at the taste. Another thing he’ll need to restock on.

He used to be more careful than this.

In the back of his mind he can hear a woman sighing, close and complicated and completely exasperated with him. He frowns. Maybe he was never more careful than this. Maybe he just had other people around him who were.

Maybe. He can never quite remember.

He checks his quiver, counts his arrows. They’re low. He could stop by the store (he should stop by the store). Link considers it for a second before dismissing the idea.

The Lizalfos and Bokoblins always have a good supply of arrows to plunder. He’ll get plenty there.

The thought of facing the lizard people’s seemingly unending supply of shock arrows makes him feel nauseous and tired, but it’s the most reasonable option. Arrows are expensive. He needs to save his rupees for other things.

 _Other things like what_ , he finds himself thinking, but pushes it to the back of his mind. He’s being… he’s being reasonable. No, prudent. Sidon called him prudent, once.

He’s being prudent. He has a plan. He just needs to get out of here and resupply. Start small, start close. Lizalfos first, then Bokoblins. Moblins if they’re around the camp; they have the better weapons. There’s a Hinox in the area — he can always sneak up to it, steal a few weapons from its stash, and get away without waking it. Maybe do that first? No, the Lizalfos are closer. 

Link considers just leaving the broadsword here, but that seems to be in bad taste. Besides, he can probably take down at least one Lizalfo with it. With a sigh, he straps it to his back.

He needs to find a shield. He used to have a really nice one, once. It was blue. It might have been a present, from someone who cared about whether or not he got hurt.

He can almost remember it.

After the Lizalfos and Bokoblin camps, he can visit the shrine by Lanayru Tower. The one with the mini Guardian. By then he’ll have weapons to spare on the fight, and he can get a much better sword and shield from it. Soh Kofi is one of his favorite shrines, for that reason.

For that reason…

Not because he met Sidon right after beating it, still riding high on adrenaline and danger, high on the thrill of victory and a battle hard fought and hard won, high on the only emotion he really remembered how to feel back then.

Link shakes his head to clear it, then grabs at the wall again when the motion sends the room swinging. He’s fine. He’s just tired. He’s fine. He can’t stay here. He has a plan.

It’s a good plan.

 _First_ , leave before anyone can comment on what happened. This is important for reasons he does not particularly wish to examine.

 _Second_ and _third_ , acquire weapons. Don’t make the same mistake twice.

 _Fourth_ , beat the Lynel. He can do it handily as long as he has enough good weapons. He’s done it before, every month since he came to the Domain. He was just under-prepared last time.

Even in his head it sounds like an excuse.

There is a fifth part of the plan that involves Sidon, and despite it being the only part of the plan that really matters, Link dares not put it into words, even in his own mind. It is better that way, though. Words are only good when other people say them. 

Like when Sidon says them.

To him.

Link has a problem.

But he also has a plan.

So everything will be fine.

And it is a good plan. Or at least not a bad plan. Not the worst plan. It is, perhaps, not a particularly _brave_ plan, but Link, for all that people say about him, is not particularly brave. Selfish, yes. Stupid, maybe, in blindingly obvious ways that even he acknowledges.

But not brave.

He is okay with this, as long as Sidon never finds out.

With one hand on the wall to steady himself, he makes his way over to the window and peers out. It must be late, well after midnight if he had to guess. The inner walks are well lit by moonlight and the luminous pillars, and besides a guard up on the overpass, no one is in sight. 

The Domain is the eerie kind of quiet-beautiful it only gets at night. Link can picture the rest of it spread out before him, the glowing arches and water-lined walkways, all blue and silver and soft and glowing. He loves the Domain at night. It’s a shame he has to leave now. But it will be easier than leaving in the morning.

He has a _plan_.

A steadying breath and only-slightly-wobbling few steps later find him at the door to the healing room. The short walk makes his vision go a little fuzzy and white around the edges, but he stays upright. He had considered using the window to leave, but the door seems to be the safer bet right now.

He hesitates at the threshold, waiting for the room to steady and listening for any sound from the other side. Kodah must be sleeping by now, or off doing whatever it is healers do when they’re not saving his life. Sidon will be visiting Mipha’s statue, like he does every night. Guards never come this deep into the complex. He memorized their patrols, either a few months or a hundred years ago, and can avoid them in his sleep. There’s no one around to… there’s no one around.

He opens the door, steps out, and walks into a wall.

A surprisingly soft wall, that goes “Oof!” and then “Link!” and then “My friend, what are you doing up? Are you well? Are you unwell? Let me take a look at you, you are much too pale… even for a Hylian. Are you sure you should be up? You look rather unsteady on your feet. Here, let me—” and then wraps its strong arms around him.

It might be the sudden stop or the sudden contact or the sudden, sickening anxiety that tries to settle in his veins, but the wobbly feeling is back, only now in his chest and stomach too, and his head is rushing and spinning and floating and everything is edged in white and noise. His ears buzz. He blinks, and tries to breathe, and it feels like there is ice in his throat and water in his lungs, but the ice is soothing and the water is warm and everything is fine.

Link is aware he should be panicking. Or maybe that he shouldn’t. He sometimes confuses the two, usually right before he does something stupid and life-threatening. But his mind is sluggish and spinning, and thoughts of _the plan_ and _leaving_ keep getting overridden by thoughts of _his arms_ and _Goddess, those abs_ and _this is really nice_.

He tries to shake his head to clear it, but turning his neck only gets him a faceful of scaled chest, and the motion aborts there. It still makes him dizzy. The buzzing stops for a moment, and when it starts again it is very clearly Sidon’s voice, laced with concern and a hint of argument.

“—need to rest. You may be back on your feet, and for that I respect you greatly, but even you cannot recover so quickly from so grievous a wound. Please, sleep some more. If it concerns you, I myself will stand—”

“No.” Link’s interruption seems to startle the prince, and he can feel the muscles against his cheek tensing. It’s very distracting and kind of amazing and Link almost forgets what he was saying, except that it’s important. “No more sleep.”

He’s slept enough for several lifetimes. Besides, he was supposed to be leaving. He can’t leave if he’s asleep.

He can’t do anything if he’s asleep.

There is a sigh that ruffles his hair, and Sidon makes a little noise like a cross between a hum and a laugh and a sob. Link feels it against his cheek more than he hears it.

“Ah, perhaps you are right, my friend. I am sure you have been abed long enough to grow tired of it. It may not be what the healers recommend, but my father says there is no injury that cannot be beaten off by a good meal and some hearty exercise.” Sidon laughs again, soft and gentle this time, and steps back. He keeps one arm around Link’s shoulders, but brings the other between them, holding it out like an offering. “Will you walk with me?”

Link has a moment to feel bereft at the loss of contact before the words register, and then he stares at the hand in front of him. He could (should?) say no. Sidon will leave him, he will leave the Domain, balance will be maintained. He doesn’t stay. He never stays, not longer than it takes to show off or get healed or be told how much of a hero he is.

It’s dangerous to stay longer than that, Link knows, or thinks, but he’s always been a bit careless with danger. Sidon still hasn’t let go of him.

Link takes his hand and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-wrote the confrontation scene in this chapter multiple times until it stopped being a confrontation, mostly because of Sidon's character.


	3. Amazing. Reckless. Wonderful.

This was a bad idea.

Link’s life in general has been a series of increasingly bad ideas, so he feels himself an expert on the subject. Like fighting Calamity Ganon without control of the Divine Beasts. Terrible idea, and where did it get him?

Well, strolling through Zora’s Domain on a beautiful, cloudless night with Prince Sidon wrapped around his side and talking gently in his ear.

Er...

Not that this is a bad thing. Link might be stumbling over his own feet and so dizzy he can barely stand, but that is neither unusual nor the problem.

The problem…

The problem is, Link does not know what is happening. More, he does not know why it is happening. And if he doesn’t know why, than he doesn’t know how to make it happen again. (He wants to make this happen again.) Because this isn’t part of the usual pattern. He didn’t beat the Lynel. He wasn’t the hero.

At least…he doesn’t remember being the hero. But then again, he doesn’t remember a lot of things. Maybe he just forgot.

Link tilts his head in thought, barely even noticing where it brushes against Sidon’s side, and frowns. It makes sense, if he thinks about it. Or doesn’t think about it. And it’s fine that he doesn’t remember, as long as Sidon does.

And it is obvious Sidon does. The prince has an arm around him, holding him steady and upright and close, and has been telling him a quiet story about…something for the past five minutes. It might be outside the pattern, but not by far. Not by too far.

But still.

He places a hand over Sidon’s, where it rests on his shoulder, and turns to the prince. Sidon stops talking mid-sentence and looks at him with worry, and Link tries to smile up at him. It comes out a bit strained, but Sidon relaxes anyway.

“The Lynel…” he starts, and then doesn’t know where to go from there.

Thankfully Sidon does, even if his face does this funny scrunching thing and his smile slips a bit. “Ah, let us not talk about that now. There is no need to worry about it. You have done your part, more than your part, truly, and I wish to consider the matter at rest. So please, do not worry about it.”

Link feels his own face twisting in response, because that really isn’t an answer. Then again, he didn’t really ask a question.

“So I…” He trails off again, the words caught in his throat like hot-footed frogs, awkward and ungainly but impossible to catch.

Sidon seems to understand, though, and his smile wilts further. With his free hand, Sidon reaches out and lays his fingers on Link’s temple. Link remembers, vaguely, an arrow cutting him just there. It seems so long ago.

“Link,” Sidon’s voice is soft, so soft and gentle, “my dearest friend, you amaze me in so many ways, though perhaps in your recklessness above all else. You have done more than you ever needed to. Please, believe me when I say it is enough.”

It is _never_ enough, Link wants to say, to scream. It never, can never be enough. Not for you.

(I’ll never be enough for you.)

But he says nothing, as always. And Sidon’s answer still is not an answer, or maybe it is. Maybe it’s just enough of one.

Maybe, it could be enough.

Link nods, and Sidon’s fingers slip away. In the half-lit hallway, Link looks at his prince and wonders how to get those fingers back again. How to get this back, again. Because the words are great. The smiles are better. But this? The holding. The touching.

Link _needs_ this. It has never been a matter of merely want.

And maybe he still doesn’t quite know what is going on, or why, but he can figure it out. There must be a new pattern. He can make a new plan.

He’ll figure it out.

“Link…”

Sidon’s voice cuts through his musings, sounding almost hesitant. How long have they been just standing here? Link can’t recall. He straightens, or tries to, but a wave of rushing, wobbling nausea sends him slumping against Sidon’s side. The prince doesn’t seem to mind, holding him up and chuckling.

“Ah, forgive me, I did not mean to startle you. But there was something I wanted to ask, before I forget completely.” Sidon pauses, and the hand on Link’s shoulder tightens. “When I came to your room, where is it you were going? If you would not mind telling me, of course.”

There is something raw in Sidon’s tone, underneath the cheer and pleasantry. Something that might be sadness or anger, and if Link were a little less fuzzy and a little more with it, he might be able to recognize it. It reminds him of riptides and undertows, and puddles that look shallow but are really deep.

It reminds him of Zelda.

It reminds him of the plan, which maybe was a bad plan after all. At least the first part. The leaving part. The second and third part, though, are solid. He should really get back to that. He can’t keep being the hero if he doesn’t have good weapons. He needs to keep being the hero. He needs weapons.

That last part sounds like an answer, so Link repeats it out loud to Sidon, who looks surprised and then worried. Link frowns. That was a good answer. It was supposed to make Sidon happy. The answer and the weapons.

He needs the weapons to make Sidon happy. That’s important. Maybe he should mention that.

(Maybe he shouldn’t.)

But his head is spinning and his thoughts are all out of order and what comes out is, “I weapons you…” and then nothing more, and then Sidon is frowning at him, but at least just in confusion this time.

When Sidon smiles, tentative and hopeful, it’s like the sun coming up, red and golden and warm. “You needed new weapons, so you were looking for me?”

It’s not even near the truth, but Link nods anyway. Anything to keep Sidon smiling at him. And it pays off, when Sidon’s smile blooms into a true grin, flat lips parting to reveal rows of deadly white teeth that flash in the moonlight.

“Oh, you should have said sooner! Here,” and the arm around him tugs gently and they are walking again, only this time Link has an inkling of where to and the simultaneous desire to walk faster and slower, “you must come with me then, I will get you everything you need. Do you need other supplies? Ah, but you must. Remind me to bring you to the store rooms tomorrow, you can help yourself to anything you need. Do—”

Link lets his mind wander, focusing on the cadence of Sidon’s words over the content of them. This wasn’t part of the plan. Or rather it was, the last part, but he skipped several steps and is doing the rest out of order.

But it’s fine. Everything is fine.

Link almost believes it, too.

“—nothing I can offer will compare to your real sword, of course, and I do wish you would take father up on his offer to help you find it, but you will have free range of the armory and—”

Sidon leads him up a walkway, down a hallway, into the inner part of the palace. The light is dimmer here, and Link has to focus on his feet to keep from tripping. There are less windows and more statues, and everything is carved stone and inlaid sapphire. He was here before, once, and he recognizes the door Sidon leads them to.

“—with a spear, not that you need the help I’m sure, but perhaps you would like to spar sometime? Once you are better, of course, and only if you have the time. I would not dream of imposing, not—”

Sidon keeps talking, as steady and soothing and endless as a river, even as he guides Link into his room and pushes him, gently, into taking a seat on the Hylian style couch in the corner. 

Link wonders, again, why Sidon has it. It looks like it has never been used.

Sidon is across the room in a few strides, plucking a long silver sword off a table and bringing it over to Link.

“Here, please take this for now. I do not know what you are most comfortable with, but this is my best sword. I would feel better with it in your hands, however.”

Link takes it. He will never use it (never, like Mipha’s spear and Revali’s bow never) but he does not plan on telling Sidon that. His hands shake as they grasp the hilt, and he hopes Sidon doesn’t notice.

He thinks Sidon does.

He looks away, out the window. That is where he should be. Out in the wilds. Up in the mountains, fighting the Lynel he is almost certain he didn’t beat. Or down in the wetlands, dealing with the Lizalfos and Bokoblins. Not here. He doesn’t belong here.

(Oh, but he wants to.)

A hand on his shoulder startles him and the world sways, tumbling and tossing like a bad fall before settling, bruised and fuzzy, back into place. Sidon is kneeling before him, looking at him with maybe concern or maybe pity and Link hates it and loves it and needs it.

He needs to leave.

He had a plan.

At least, he thinks he did. But the cushions and his head and Sidon’s smile are all so soft and wavering and the potion’s effects are already wearing off and it’s been so long since he’s slept. If he ever woke. Everything feels distant and cold, slow and sluggish like he’s still underwater, maybe sleeping or maybe drowning but always waiting.

Waiting for...

“Link?” Sidon’s voice is heavy and slow, and seems to come from far away. From underwater? No, it must be from above. He’s the one underwater. 

Blinking, he forces himself to focus on Sidon. He wants to reach out. If only he could touch Sidon, maybe he could breathe again. Maybe he could close his eyes and not feel the weight of water on his chest.

Maybe he could even sleep.

“Link...” Sidon sighs, and he thinks he might have missed something. Concentrating is difficult, and Sidon’s face swims in his vision. Link tries to make himself sit straighter and force his head to calm, and feels betrayed when his body refuses to cooperate. 

It should never have gotten this bad. His body is all he has. If it fails again, there is nothing. He is nothing.

Just another broken weapon.

“Dedication is wonderful,” Sidon continues, then hesitates.

Had he ever stopped talking? Had he been waiting for Link to say something? Panic pierces him, sharp and cold as an ice arrow, and the fog of his mind gives way before it. But no, Sidon is still watching him like there is nothing else in the room more precious, and Link’s heart stutters even as Sidon’s words begin to filter through his sluggish mind.

“Dedication is wonderful,” Sidon repeats slowly, a sad smile tugging at his lips, “and your dedication most wonderful of all. But I beg of you, my friend, do not let duty to others blind you to the duty you have to yourself.”

Link feels the blush coloring his cheeks even as the words warm his heart. He’s not sure what Sidon meant by any of it, but _wonderful_ lodges itself in his heart, nestled under _amazing_ and _brave_ and _grateful_. 

Sidon breathes out all at once, and it could be a laugh or a sigh or just a Zora thing. Then he shakes his head, and maybe it’s all of them. “Ah, perhaps you should ignore me. It is late, and we should all have been abed hours ago. There is no need for you to return to the healing wing. Stay here, and I will see to your weapons in the morning.”

Sidon leans back, his hand falling from Link’s shoulder. The keenness of its loss nearly takes what little breath Link has away, and he almost misses the look that passes over Sidon’s face. It’s the merest flicker, like a dark form moving beneath fin-churned waters, the here-and-gone flash of a predator hiding in the shallows.

“If you are still here in the morning, of course.” Sidon’s voice is bright but brittle, and there is a shadow behind his smile that makes Link ache in a way no battle ever has. Sidon retrieves an armful of mismatched blankets from a chest by the couch, and dumps them without ceremony next to Link. He looks at them, then seems to brace himself. “I hope you will be. Good night, Link. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to call out.”

In a few unnaturally long strides Sidon is at the edge of his sleeping pool, and then he is gone beneath the water and Link is alone again. He could leave. Out the door, out the window, out—

He blinks stupidly at the agressively colorful pile of blankets, then touches a hand to his side. The hard press of the Sheikah slate rests there, so familiar as to be forgotten. He cringes internally. Some hero of legend he is. Zelda never should have entrusted him with it in the first place.

The light of the screen is harsh compared to the light from the luminous carvings along the walls. He stares blankly at the map. Dagah Keek? It would get him out of the Domain. But Daka Tuss would get him to the middle of the Wetlands. Was that where he was going first? He couldn’t remember. The plan seems so far off now, so far away from both completion and relevance.

He could still go. To face the Lynel, the one he is almost certain he didn’t beat. He could go to the wetlands, deal with the Lizalfos. He could go anywhere, really; to the mountains or the plains or the forest that smells like mist and forgetting.

(He doesn’t want to go to the forest.)

The world is vast and doesn’t care how broken he is, so long as he saves it.

_I hope you will be_

Link puts the slate away. His arms tremble from holding it, heavy still with bruises and slow to respond. It’s already so late (too late, always too late). Morning is mere hours away. He could stay. Just a few hours.

He could stay.

He curls under the blankets. The gathered words stir in his heart and he presses them close. Sleep takes him quickly, and for the first time in months he doesn’t fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link doesn't know what he's doing with his life, and neither do I.


End file.
